


Heartbroken

by booksblanketsandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, John is an idiot, John needs to do some thinking, M/M, Mary is torn, Wedding, relationships, sherlock is heartbroken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock understands in that moment that John – sweet, honorable, Stupid John Watson – truly doesn’t know that his best friend is in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A coda to 'The Sign of Three', what I think should have happened at the 'napkin scene'.

Sherlock knows as soon as Mary says the name ‘Beth’ that it’s a code. Mary doesn’t have any friends called Beth (if she did, they would have been invited to the wedding – Mary’s side of the RSVP list was appallingly sparse, even for an orphan). And John  _definitely_  doesn’t have a friend called Beth because the only people John gives his number to are those in his immediate circle of friends and the women he’s trying to sleep with. If this non-existent ‘Beth’ was in John’s immediate circle, Sherlock would have met her by now. And the other – well, Sherlock is currently sitting on the floor folding serviettes, miniature Opera Houses for the tables at John’s wedding. John is not the kind of man who sleeps with women other than his fiancée.

Of course, the way John freezes minutely and then excuses himself only confirms Sherlock’s suspicions. So – code. Obvious. But for what? Sherlock picks up another serviette and slows his breathing, straining to pick up the hushed conversation happening in the kitchen.

“He knows we don’t have a friend called Beth. He’s gonna figure out that it’s code.” John’s hushed voice doesn’t echo in the silence of the flat but he can still hear what is being said relatively clearly. Old walls, not exactly sound proof. Sherlock smiles slightly; his blogger John, who has never once underestimated him, not in all the years of their friendship… always so ready to believe Sherlock possible of the incredible (or so his most basic deductions seem to appear to the humdrum of London).

“He’s YouTube-ing serviettes” Mary’s softer voice filters through from the kitchen and Sherlock looks down at the finished napkin origami in his hand and puts it aside, picking up another to begin to fold strong, neat lines as John huffs.

“He’s thorough.”

“He’s  _terrified_.”

Sherlock pauses in his folding and his stomach drops. ‘Don’t’, he thinks suddenly,  _angrily._ He’s not quite sure what he’s so against being said, but he is very sure that he doesn’t want Mary and John to be having this conversation – but, as always, it goes on without him anyway.

“’Course he’s not,” John scoffs, as if the very idea of Sherlock being scared is ridiculous.

 

As if Sherlock hadn’t nearly thrown up from fear, that day two years ago when everything was  _ruined_ , Moriarty’s blood pooling around his still warm corpse and everything going to shit as John stood far below and so out of reach that it made Sherlock’s head spin and his stomach clench with ice cold dread as he looked down at his best friend, at the only person who had seen him as he was and  _stayed_ , the only one Sherlock had ever loved and he hadn’t even realized it until that moment and wasn’t he meant to be a genius? Wasn’t he meant to see these things, to be above these things? But no, it had been so obvious in that moment – as Sherlock sacrificed everything; his life, his work, his reputation, his  _home_  – all for the man standing below him. It had never been so obvious to Sherlock that Mycroft was right, that caring wasn’t an advantage but dammit all if he hadn’t gone and cared anyway

The fear had been solid and dead in his gut and it stayed that way for the better part of three years as he had run for his life and he had been always,  _always_  terrified that it wouldn’t be enough, that he’d never get home, that he’d be found out, that John would be killed anyway and it all would have been for nothing.. and Sherlock has never told any of this to John because- well because it just never came up. One minute it was fake moustaches and being throttled on the floor of the restaurant and then it was fire and not-quite-explosions and (most terrifying, most unexpected and most startling of all) John was getting  _married_ , wanted Sherlock by his side (but not at his side, not for life, because he had Mary and he’s straight, he’s always said, ‘not gay’,  _always_  and it still hurt, something settling deep in Sherlock’s gut, resting up alongside that terror that had lasted for years and hasn’t quite managed to leave just yet – and John might not have any idea about any of this, but Mary, oh,  _Mary_.

She was clever. She saw, she knew, Sherlock knows she does – it was in her gaze, that first night as she offered to talk to John and Sherlock knew that he had a friend, of a sort, in Mary. That she would help explain, that she would tell him, tell John why he had had to leave, that it had been for him – and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, yes – but it had been John who had made Sherlock want to be good. Want to be better; to be worthy of his friends that he had then so desperately needed to protect.

Mary understood.

 

Too much, apparently, Sherlock decided as she replied to John.

“Right, you know when you’re scared of something, you start wishing it would happen sooner just to get it all going? That’s what he’s doing.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and could imagine the earnest look on Mary’s delicate face, her eyes sharp and mouth pulled up at one side, trying to convince her fiancé that she was right. Could imagine John’s face twisting up in confusion as he replied.

“Why would he be scared that we’re getting married? It’s not gonna change anything – we’ll still do stuff.”

 

And Sherlock understands in that moment that John – sweet, honorable,  _stupid_  John Watson – truly doesn’t know that his best friend is in love with him.

And Sherlock? Sherlock is not sweet, or honorable, and he is especially not stupid. So he stands up and walks into the kitchen and says blandly,

“John, you’re an idiot”.

 

\- - - 

 

John turns around at the voice, cursing himself. He should have known better than to have this conversation within earshot of Sherlock – the sleuth’s insatiable curiosity meant he could never help eavesdropping on conversations that had nothing to do with him – or, in this case, had everything to do with him. He shakes himself and meets his friends’ eye, trying to send him a silent apology for talking about him behind his back - but then John’s brain catches up to what Sherlock had just said.

“Sorry, why am I an idiot now?”

 

“You think I’m scared” Sherlock speaks again, and this time it’s directed over John’s shoulder at Mary, who is standing quietly behind him. “I’m not. I’ve known this day was coming for longer than you’ve even known John. For years I’ve known that John was always going to meet someone, some dull, conventionally attractive woman to settle down with. He was always going to leave.” Sherlock shrugs, and smiles and John suddenly has a flashing sense of de-ja-vu, because this smile is one he hasn’t seen in a long time, and it’s... it’s sad, and bitter and more grimace than grin, and it makes John feel slightly worried and a bit frightened because this?  This expression never boded well in the past, always accompanied black moods and cruel words, but Sherlock speaks through it as though it sits comfortably on his face.

“At least he chose someone with a brain. At least you’re smarter than the rest of them. At least I can respect you, Mary. Because unlike everyone else in this cesspit of a city, you actually  _observe_ … not like you, John.”

And here Sherlock turns back to John and his eyes are sharp and angry and, more worryingly, John can see that they are shining,  _bright_ , like Sherlock is holding back tears and suddenly John thinks that this time, he’s missed something incredibly important.

“She’s telling you I’m scared, and she’s right, a bit. But it's more than that-” and Mary breaks in, says

“Sherlock, don’t. There’s no point.” It’s quiet and sadder than John had expected and he looks between them, his fiancée and his best friend and he is very aware that they both know something he doesn’t, something important. Mary sees his confusion and steps forward, reaching out and grabbing hold of his hand in a comforting squeeze.

Sherlock glances at Mary’s hand wrapped in John’s, stares at their hands and says “I am aware there’s no point."

Sherlock straightens his spine, like he does before a deduction that he knows won't be well received.

"But I  _have_  to tell him. I thought he knew,” and his voice is equally sad and incredulous at this point and John still has no idea what’s happening. “I thought John  _knew_ , Mary. I thought he could see it, and he just never wanted to – to talk about it, or acknowledge it, and I was fine with that, I was. I was going to step aside and not do anything, because I want him to be happy, and you… you do that. You make him happy.”

Mary smiles softly and she gives John’s hand a last squeeze before stepping back and gesturing for Sherlock to continue. The detective turns back to John, and his ink-dark curls are a rioting halo around his skull, Sherlock running a hand through his hair nervously as he starts again.

 

“I thought you knew. I’m not scared, John. I’m- I’m fucking  _heartbroken_.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought you knew. I’m not scared, John. I’m- I’m fucking _heartbroken_.”

 

-

 

Everyone goes very quiet all of a sudden, and John feels his mouth go very dry as his pulse suddenly becomes very loud in his ears.

“You- _what?_ ” he hears himself stutter distantly, because surely, surely he’s misunderstood this, except Sherlock is stepping forward and into his space – and he’s always done that, has always invaded the air around John like it was his space to command, like he _belonged_ there – and he looks down at John and smiles and it’s possibly the saddest thing John’s ever seen.

“I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot,” Sherlock says quietly, like it’s just the two of them and John’s fiancé isn’t in the room with them. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss on John’s cheek, just missing his lips before he straightens back up and walks out of the kitchen without a word. Distantly there’s the sound of the door downstairs opening and closing, and everything seems kind of.. detached and muggy. ‘I need a shock blanket,’ John thinks, and then he has to physically stop himself from bursting into hysterical giggles.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the door where Sherlock just left, but he slowly becomes aware of Mary standing at his side, and he turns to look at her, to check with her. Because _surely_ , this is one of Sherlock’s ridiculous pranks, and any minute now he’ll come bursting through the door with that manic grin on his face and his deep voice rumbling in his chest as he laughs at John’s gullibility. Because _surely_ , it can’t be what it seems, except that Mary’s voice is quiet and serious when she says

“I don’t think he’ll be back for a while. He’ll want some space,” and John realizes he’s looked back at the doorway without being aware of the decision to do so.

 

Apparently this is the one time that it’s _exactly_ how it looks - there’s no prank, no joke, no hidden motive and absolutely no going around it.

“He’s in love with me?” John asks, finally turning back to Mary, who looks at him in a way that is, worryingly enough, entirely too reminiscent of Sherlock. It very clearly says ‘Oh, you poor, simple thing’.

John _hates_ that look, but at this particular moment he thinks he might just deserve it.

“Oh, John,” Mary says gently, like he’s some delicate thing she needs to tiptoe around. “Of _course_ he’s in love with you.”

   


It hits him quite suddenly then, that this is actually happening, and he sort of half stumbles, half falls to the nearest chair at the kitchen table. He really might be going into shock.

Mary sits down next to him and rubs her hand over his back as he focusses on taking deep breaths, his hands rubbing over his face as he tries to process the last few minutes of his life.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” John says after a moment and Mary shrugs.

“Well, it’s always been quite obvious, hasn’t it?” She says and John barks a laugh that has no humor in it whatsoever.

“Not to me it hasn’t,” he says, and then wonders aloud, “How many people know?”

And Mary sighs again as if he’s still being slow.

“John, _everyone_ knows. In fact, I’d say the only one who didn’t know... was you.”

   


He looks up from where he has his face in his hands, unconsciously rubbing over the spot where Sherlock kissed his check, and stares at her.

“How did this happen? How long? Why- why did no one _tell me?”_ he pleads, and Mary takes his hands again, wraps them in her own smaller palms and brings them to her lips.

“John, I’ve read your blog. People have been telling you from day one,” she paused before continuing, “but as always, it seems that unless it came from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes himself, you weren’t likely to pay it any attention.”

John bristles and snaps, “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  


Mary sighs and leans back, looking around the kitchen of 221B and imagining how it had been, only a few years ago when John had lived here alongside Sherlock. It wouldn’t be noticeable to many, but Mary could pick the details out, could see that there were gaps, here and there. Pieces missing. A place on the shelf where a particular coffee cup was meant to go. One half of the table was clear of Sherlock’s equipment, but there were a few crumbs on one side of the table, as if the person eating there had sat and looked at the empty space across from them.

It reminded Mary of when she had first met John.

He’d had a lot of pieces missing, too.  
  


“It means that Sherlock has always been number one to you, John. I knew it before we started dating, and as soon as I realized who it was that night in that restaurant, I knew that, engagement or not, I would never really have you for my own. Not completely.”

She smiled at John softly.

“And I was okay with that. Truly, I was. But now…” she shrugged. “Honestly, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who thought that you knew how he felt about you. I thought it was just this… unspoken thing between you two, but that you knew, of course you knew. How could you not? It sounds like he’s been head over heels for you from day one – for Gods sakes, John, the man faked his death to save you!” Mary’s voice rose sharply, before she took a breath and continued.

“But obviously, that wasn’t the case. You didn’t know – but now you do. And, honestly, I don’t know where we stand anymore. Because I _know_ you, John. I know what jumper is your favourite, I know how you taste before you’ve brushed your teeth and I know that you’re more prone to having nightmares if you sleep on your left side. I know everything a fiancé should possibly know.”  


  
Mary stood and stepped forward to rest her hands on John’s shoulders, running up his neck and gently carding through his hair.

“And I know that I will _never_ know you like Sherlock Holmes knows you, and I know that it has nothing to do with his deductions. I know that when I met you… the man I met was... was _devastated_ over the loss of his best friend and I thought, even then I thought, ‘he’s feeling this too strongly. It’s cutting too deep for it to just be friendship’ – but you assured me there had never been anything between you, and because we both never thought there would be the chance for it, I didn’t push it. But that man I first met and the man in front of me are so, so different,” she ran her fingers through his hair and stared down at John, his cornflower blue eyes meeting hers and Mary could see the truth there, that same spark she had seen flicker back into life that night when Sherlock returned.

“I know that before we had even left that restaurant you had forgiven him, because suddenly you looked _alive_ in ways I hadn’t ever seen. I know you love him, and I know that you’re not quite sure _how_ you love him. But it’s time for you to figure that out.”

 

Mary stepped back towards the door and John stared, in a state of confusion (which, he decided, had happened _far_ too often today). He tried to speak but his mouth was dry from being quiet so long and he nearly choked on the words that fell from his tongue.

“Mary, what-”

“John, I love you. And if you had never known, if Sherlock hadn’t said anything, then I would have been happy to go on as we were, pretending that there wasn’t anything there between the two of you, something that I could never be a part of. But we can’t continue, not like this, and I can’t even resent Sherlock for that, because I would have done the same thing in his place.” She smiled, and swallowed, steeling herself.

 

“So I’m asking you to choose. I’m asking you to think about this – really think. Because I think you and I could have a wonderful life together, John, I really do. I think we’d be great together. But I also think that without Sherlock, you’re not yourself. You go grey and bitter around the edges and you’re still wonderful, you are... but _with him?_ With him, you’re incredible. With him, you are who you were always meant to be. And I’ll admit, that frightens me, a bit. Because I don’t know that even if we still carried on, if we got married and settled down together.. I don’t know that I could ever live up to him.”

And for the first time, Mary’s face twisted bitterly.

“And how _telling_ is that, John? You’ve never been together, you’ve always said you’re not gay, that Sherlock’s not like that… and I still doubt I could be a match for you the way he is.”

 

She turned to leave and paused in the doorway.

“And I think now that it’s very clear that Sherlock _is_ like that- or, at least, he is when it comes to you. So I think you should talk to him. You’re not always an easy man to love, John. But I do. And he does. And then… you need to choose. Because I already feel like a consolation prize, and I _refuse_ to start a marriage on that foundation.”

And she left.

 

 

 

 


End file.
